


The Mighty Ladonia and the Fall of Sweden

by GrimAnonymousRex



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A little angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), I thought it would be cute, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but only a smidgen I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimAnonymousRex/pseuds/GrimAnonymousRex
Summary: A cute little family one-shot for Sweden and Ladonia.





	The Mighty Ladonia and the Fall of Sweden

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff. I just thought of this at about 4:30am when I couldn't sleep and I thought it would be really cute. I reckon Sweden would be/is a great dad.
> 
> Semi based on that one strip in the manga where Ladonia and Sweden act out a little script that he has written whereby he "defeats" the Mighty Sweden.
> 
> Edit, I forgot to add the rating, so here it is now with the proper one. my apologies
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor the Hetalia characters. I do, however, own a hammer. I'm very proud of that hammer, it's my favourite one.

Swords clashed together as strikes were parried and blocked. The young man was tiring fast, but he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t let his fearsome opponent gain the upper hand. This battle had been raging for what felt like hours, but many other campaigns had preceded it, all of which his nemesis had won. But not this time. This time, the Lion of Northern Europe would fall. It was foretold, his victory assured by the wheels of fate.

“You’re no match for me, the mighty Ladonia! The time for my nation to rise has come.” He cried, aiming the point of his sword to jab his enemy in the leg, hitting him in the centre of his thigh sharply.

“Argh!” Sweden yelled in pain and fury. “I’ll get you for that!” He swung his own weapon towards the micronation, widely missing when the boy jumped out of the way. Growling in frustration he turned, only to find a sword swiping across the top of his legs, making him fall to the floor.

“No! I won't be beaten like this! Jag är Lejonet från norden!” The indignation was clear as he cried out. How could his have happened?!

“AH HA!” Ladonia finally had his chance. He raised his sword to bring it down on Sweden’s chest.

“Mercy! I beg you, I yield!” He pleaded with the victor for his life, eyeing the blade and lifting his arms up in surrender as he lay on his back in the dirt. “It can't end like this, please!” But the victor's face held no trace of pity.

“You had your chance for mercy, now die like the dog you are!”

The micronation plunged the sword into the side of Sweden’s chest, making him gasp out.

“Nej, I am defeated…" He coughed, weakly. "It’s so cold, so dark... Goodbye, cruel world!”

Berwald made sure to make it look convincing as he dramatically gasped his “final breath”, closing his eyes and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth with a ‘mlem’ and allowing his body to fall slack. The hand-crafted wooden sword was firmly wedged in Berwald’s armpit, but bit by bit it was drooping down comically. At least this time there had been no guns involved- in the battle of "eyeball versus Nerf dart" there is only one winner.

“Victory is mine!!” Erland’s joyous cries filled the back garden as he did a victory dance around his caretakers “corpse”.

Berwald grinned widely around the tongue still theatrically lolling out of the corner of his mouth. It warmed his heart to see one of his little boys so happy and carefree. A lot of other nations would have thought this behaviour, this play-pretend, stupid and childish but not him. It mattered a great deal to him and it was important that the imaginations of his children were allowed to run wild, to be developed and nurtured. He wouldn’t be doing his duty as a father if he didn’t spend time like this with his sons, Sealand especially, after England had abandoned him.

And besides, he could readily admit that it was fun for him too. The chances to be silly were few and far between for a Nation.

“We’ll cut for a minute, so I can put the fake blood on.” Erland suggested, pausing the camera and grabbing the bottle of ketchup. He’d written a little script for this and they were filming it so he could put it on his Youtube account, under the careful supervision of the Swede, as part of the micronation’s country-work.

“Do we really need to?” Berwald asked, he hated the smell of the dreadful American gunk, but if it made Erland happy it didn’t really matter, he was wearing old clothes anyway.

“Yeah! It’s got to look realistic!” The boy reasoned, and who was Berwald to point out that it wouldn’t look realistic at all.

“Fine, just don’t go mad with it.” Chance would be a fine thing, he knew, as the cap was popped open and the tomato goo liberally smeared around the “wound” and little trails melodramatically splattered on his chest. The shirt, at this point, was deader than Berwald was.

“Perfect!” Erland said, a smug smile on his face as he surveyed his handywork, turning the camera back on. Berwald lifted his head off the ground and raised an eyebrow at the mess, suppressing a chuckle as his head was plopped back down by two small hands on his cheeks.

“Stay dead, dad. Corpses don’t smile!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. How could he forget? After all, he’d “died” enough to know what death looked like, though he’d never want his little boys to see what he had seen. A small part of Berwald found it difficult playing like this, the painful memories that could be dredged up, but he’d always get past it and allow himself to indulge in the fun, being sure to keep things safe and his little ones protected. It was always worth it, even now as he thought of being in the same position, defeated by... A little voice reached his ears.

A sudden and fantastic idea had pinged in Erland’s head, looking from the ketchup bottle to Berwald as a sly smile turned the corner of his mouth up. What’s even better than a dramatic death scene? That’s right- a dramatic death scene where the recently departed becomes one of the Undead.

“Corpses don’t smile…” He repeated… “But zombies do!” His logic, to him and him alone, was utterly faultless.

The deadpan “What?” was cut off as a large amount of the red sauce was splattered across Berwald’s face and hair, some landing in his mouth and obscuring his vision as the lenses of his glasses were covered. Jackson Pollock would have been impressed.

“Yuck,” the Swede moaned, distracted from the past once more and using his clean sleeve to clear the gunk out of his mouth and off his spectacles. He was very glad at this point that Tino was out for the day, that Peter was over at England’s for the week, and that the other three Nordic nations were not visiting. Sweden wouldn’t live this down, at least not with Denmark and Norway certainly.

Any hints of parental annoyance were quickly dispelled at the sight of the young boy clutching his sides and rolling on the floor laughing, and even Berwald had to admit it was pretty funny. Erland pressed record once more.

“Payback time.” He thought.

Berwald sat himself up slowly, a very unconvincing zombie-like moan grumbling out of his throat. He turned to the camera which a blank expression, in spite of the ketchup dripping perilously close to his left eye.

“ _Brains_ …”

Erland stopped laughing and looked towards his caretaker, a comical expression of dread falling over his features.

“ _Need… brains…_ ”

The tall Swede lunged to his feet and gave chase to the micronation now sprinting around the garden screaming his head off.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” He picked up the fallen sword as he ran, avoiding Berwald’s grasp at every turn. The man wasn’t really putting any serious effort into chasing him, his longer legs just gave an advantage.

Somewhere along the line, Ladonia realised he still had the ketchup bottle in his possession and the chase was reversed, Sweden jogging away in the hopes of at least salvaging his trousers. Sadly, they too were sacrificed for the cause of internet hilarity and ad revenue.

Just as Sweden was slowing down to catch his breath a loud, brash voice interrupted the scene.

“What the hell, Sverige?!”

To Denmark, and Norway though the latter would never be so vocal about it, Sweden looked absolutely ridiculous covered in so much tomato sauce that it was surprising that America hadn't turned up with a bag of French fries. Just what the hell was going on here?

As his eyes met Berwald’s mortified features, Mathias saw Erland run up behind the Swede and jab his back with the point of a wooden sword. Embarrassment seemingly forgotten for the time being, Berwald reacted by giving a melodramatic groan and falling to his knees. Erland followed up with a light swipe across his neck and Berwald collapsed forward onto the grass.

“The Mighty Ladonia has won again! The Swedish zombie’s reign of terror has ended!” His cries of joy were cut off when he realised they now had an audience. Erland’s cheeks pinked with embarrassment that their game had been seen. Somehow, their seeing it in person was more embarrassing than them seeing the video when he put it up, but he couldn’t quite figure out why; maybe it was because he was a micronation, supposed to be mature to an extent, or maybe because of the distance the internet provided him normally was missing, there was nowhere for him to retreat to. Whatever the reason, he felt bad and he felt bad about humiliating his caretaker, too.

“Hej Mat, Lukas,” Berwald greeted his impromptu guests, rising back from the dead once more. “What’re you doing here?”

“I think the more pressing question is what are you doing, Berwald? You’re covered in ketchup.” Lukas could barely refrain from sticking his tongue out at the crimson condiment, but his distaste was clear from his tone.

“’M a zombie, I think,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, regretting it when he realised he was just smearing the ketchup further. “I’d threaten to eat your brains, Mathias, but I don’t think you’ve any left.” He couldn’t help the tiny dig given the circumstances, and off-the-cuff it wasn’t bad.

“Aren’t you a little old to be doing this, both of you? What are you now, ten, Erland?” Mathias snorted derisively. “Plus, it’s not even realistic, if you wanted it to actually look good you should have called me! You remember the good, ol’ Viking days, Sve, come on!”

Sweden’s face dropped into a scowl. “That’s enough, Denmark.” He wasn’t going to let Mathias make Erland feel bad about himself for having fun, for doing something he enjoyed and being creative. “It doesn’t matter if it’s realistic, this is something fun. Ladonia wanted to make it as part of his country-work to boost some revenue. Don’t you dare be unkind to him.”

Denmark tried to blow it off. “Sheesh, Ber, it’s not a big deal.” But Sweden wouldn’t have it.

“Nh. Apologise to Erland. Right now, Mathias.” The glare in his eyes was such that Denmark had no other option, though he begrudged it.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, Erland, ok?”

Ladonia just nodded, feeling too tense and embarrassed to do anything else.

“Thank you. Now what is it you actually wanted?” Berwald addressed them both, ignoring the smirk that Norway was shooting his way.

“Nothing,” Mathias’s tone was breezy. “Just wanted to drop in and see if you wanted to make us dinner, but I can see you’re wearing it.”

“I am indeed.” Berwald agreed sardonically, a ploy hatching in his mind as he walked calmly over to them, making it seem as if he were heading to the house. He cast a backwards glance and a mischievous wink to Erland, who got the hint and grabbed the camera.

“Since, you’re here though…” He was a mere foot away from Mathias when he took his chance, lunging out to embrace the Dane in a very messy hug. “… Dinner is served.”

Mathias yowled and fought to free himself from the bear-hug, but it was too late. Revenge, after all, is a dish best served with a side of ketchup.

“Does Denmark surrender to the glory of Sweden?” Was his face smug? It felt smug.

“NEVER!” Denmark yelled. “LEMME GO!”

“Say it.”

“NO!”

“Say it.”

“FINE! SWEDEN IS GLORIOUS, NOW MAKE LIKE ELSA AND LET ME GO, YOU SWEDISH BAS-MRPGH!!”

The end of that word was muffled when Berwald smeared a ketchup covered paw over Mathias’s mouth, but he let him go. The grin on Sweden’s face was huge as Denmark surveyed his outfit for damage, though he felt he ought to offer a truce.

“I’ll put the laundry on and you can grab a shower. I am a merciful victor, after all.” Berwald chose to ignore the muttered stream of Danish and Norwegian profanities and the vague promises of revenge. "There's beer in the fridge," he offered, and Mathias shut up immediately.

While Denmark and Norway made their way into the house, Sweden headed over to where Ladonia had plonked himself on the grass, fiddling with the camera.

“Are you ok, min son?” He asked gently, kneeling down and sitting back on his calves. “Ignore Mathias, he’s an idiot.” He wanted to give the micronation a hug but he didn’t want to make another mess. "Please don't let him upset you."

“Yeah, sure.” Erland agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced. He walked back into the house before his caretaker could speak further, but Berwald made a note to talk to him later when his son had calmed down some. In the meantime, he needed a shower and they all needed food.

Now free from the tomatoes evil clutches and fed, Berwald was getting Erland ready for bed, plugging in his laptop and tucking the little boy under the covers. He'd been very quiet and reserved over dinner, but Berwald knew that he wouldn’t want to talk until he was ready to.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled.

“Why? What are you apologising for?” Berwald's brow creased in worry at how hurt he sounded.

“For embarrassing you like that. For embarrassing me too. We’re nations, we shouldn’t be doing stupid stuff like that.” Erland’s lips turned down into a frown as he spoke. “Don’t want to do silly things like that again.”

Berwald sighed, sitting down on the covers and turning to face him. “Erland, you didn’t embarrass me, and you shouldn’t feel embarrassed yourself. You’ve nothing to apologise for.” The gentle tone didn’t seem to sway the micronation.

“But-“

“But nothing, min son.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It’s important, stuff like today. It’s important that you get to be a child, to be you and to have fun. I want you to have a good childhood, to be happy. It, it matters a great deal to me.” He admitted in little more than a whisper.

“Why?” Erland asked, his curiosity piqued at his dad’s openness.

Berwald bit his lip before answering, taking off his glasses and looking down at his hands. They were rough, calloused and scarred by work and war.

“Because I never got that,” he started, quietly. “I never got the chance to be a child, to have fun like that when I came to… _be_ , for want of a better term. I was only a toddler when I was taken on my first voyage, little more than six for my first raid. The tribes-people feared me, cast me out because I didn’t age, didn’t grow like they did. I followed them around, kept close as I could but they would chase me back into the forest until they finally realised what I was. I want you, and Peter, to have the things I didn’t. To be free to be children away from being micronations, you deserve that chance. And honestly, I wouldn’t miss the chance to have fun like today for anything. I get to make-believe every bit as much as you do. If you really don’t want to do stuff like that, making videos, writing little stories like that then that’s fine, too. But please don’t stop being creative, you need to keep that, you shouldn’t lose it, it’s part of you. And don’t do it on account of an idiot like your uncle Denmark.” Berwald ruffled his little boy’s red hair softly before giving him a warm hug. “Okej?” 

Erland had never really thought about this father's childhood, only that he was a Viking warrior and seen a great deal of conflict. He knew this before but only now did Erland truly realise how lucky he was. He had a loving family surrounding him, he'd not seen conflict nor been left alone in the middle of the sea. His dad was right.

"Ja," he whispered. "Tack, Pappa."

Berwald smiled as he felt Erland yawn against his ear and tucked the covers around him once more, watching as his eyes slowly closed. He stood up and tiptoed towards the door, turning the light off and murmuring a soft goodnight, secure in the knowledge that his sons were safe and happy. He couldn't wish for anything better.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Jag är Lejonet från norden!" "I am the Lion from the North!" (Also the title of a fantastic song by the Swedish metal band, Sabaton.)
> 
> "Tack" "thank you"


End file.
